


Freefall

by sixtieshairdo



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: M/M, Sonny is smitten, Sonny's POV, Will is wonderful, life used to be less complicated before Wabi came along, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtieshairdo/pseuds/sixtieshairdo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's pretend that the Wabi baby didn't happen, yeah? These are Sonny's thoughts on Will in the morning, afternoon and evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freefall

  
  


  
  
You're particularly beautiful in the morning.

  
Lips sleep-laden, eyes barely awake, naked skin, and fine hair; every inch a new permutation from yesterday morning's.

  
You smile at me and the world opens a window.

  
_Breathtaking_.

  
Your first words tumble out of you, nonsense sounds, almost by accident, a flaw that is secretly-adored. Sometimes you back track, frown at yourself a little, and recover, properly formed words whole and sound falling past your lips. Other times you just laugh and bury your face into the pillow, still not ready for the world yet.

  
I am always stunned by the simple complexity of your being; a paradox I don't mind being caught up in. Fear is micro-inches away from my heart; you scare me far more than existentialism (or death), because you hardly ask for anything, but I find myself always thirsting to give you everything.

  
You open your eyes after a good few minutes of trying to gather your awakening senses together, and you see me watching you, and your lips turn up into an honest-to-god endearing smile, and you say,

  
_Hey_.

  
And no matter how many times this happens, love, I am floored by the magic in that moment, and before I can respond to that, you're reaching out to me, fingertips to whatever part of me you'd want to caress, and you're pulling me back to your warmth, and I laugh because you're infectious (like a childhood ditty, or a timeless chorus), and I know this is what  _right_  feels like.

  
...

  
You're golden in the afternoon.

  
I've never been attracted to blondes until you came along.

  
Perhaps that is a poor construction of my personality, or an acute summation of my prejudices, but you stood out from the minute we met.  You shook my hand, your eyes squinted as you laughed in relief, your hair catching the shine of the afternoon sun.

  
Now, as we sit at what we fondly refer to as 'our spot' in the middle of busy Horton Square, your head is tilted back, eyes closed, face upwards to the sky. No occasion called for it; you never needed a reason to appreciate the noontime heat on your willing skin.

  
Your hand is lost in my hair, and you murmur, more to yourself than to me, how long my hair has grown.

  
I tell you that,

  
_I'll probably get a haircut soon, maybe a crew cut, since my hair grows at the speed of light_.

  
Your eyes fly open, blonde hair in an alarmed disarray from the horrifying news, and you look so miserable that I had to kiss you and promise,

  
_Not too short, I swear_.

  
...

  
You're heart-wrenchingly pristine in the evening.

  
You have become an integral part of my consciousness, and though we're not officially living together (yet), we're already playing out the roles of old-timers sharing a home.

  
Sometimes I take a step back from everything just to pull myself out of this blanket of safety I feel with you, just in case I am buried in too deep, but you only hook your ankle around mine and tug me back in, easily, seamlessly, and I slide back against you, willingly, fluid.

  
Sex used to be frantic, passionate kisses and hard thrusts, rushing for time as we tried to grasp at as much of each other as we possibly could. These days, our rhythms have slowed down, but the fire is still burning as bright, the heat stronger, longer.

  
On other nights, when sex doesn't happen, we perform a different kind of intercourse; with intimate words and chaste touches, the comfortable press of one body against another, palms on skin, soft laughter on lips.

  
Right before you slip away into slumber, your fingers curl almost protectively around my wrist or arm or waist, for a few precious seconds, and then you're breathing deeply.

  
I close my eyes, tired but happy ( _always_  happy), and find solace in the freefall of my heart.


End file.
